


Ghrelin

by Blissome



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Dark, Escape, F/F, F/M, Forced Marriage, M/M, Pack Dynamics, Power Dynamics, Scent Marking, derek is shirtless, going to hell in a handbasket, stiles is heartless and very out of options
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-06
Updated: 2013-06-02
Packaged: 2017-11-15 17:52:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/530019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blissome/pseuds/Blissome
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was autumn, the first time he ran away.  The leaves were bright and broken under his feet as he ran, panting, through the trees away from the place he was supposed to call home.  The air was crisp even as he gasped it down, the sun glinted gold off of the tree trunks even as he sprinted past them.   </p><p>It would have been a stunning day for anything except an escape.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. a beginning

**Author's Note:**

> I still can't believe I watched this show, let alone started writing a fic about it. Teaser chapter, ahoy!

It was autumn, the first time he ran away. The leaves were bright and broken under his feet as he ran, panting, through the trees away from the place he was supposed to call home. The air was crisp even as he gasped it down, the sun glinted gold off of the tree trunks even as he sprinted past them. He could have sworn he heard the shrill cry of a falcon, once, but was too tired to care, too tired to care about anything but the ability to keep going. It would have been a stunning day for anything except an escape.

He hadn’t really planned that run out. And he was generally a planner. A huge planner. A ten-plan kind of man. But that had been completely spur-of-the-moment. He’d seen a chance while terrified, a door left unlocked, and he meant a door literally left unlocked, and taken it. Maybe he had been spending too much time with Scott. Not that it really mattered then. All that mattered then was running; getting away from a future that was nothing but closed doors, empty answers, boredom, and a lifetime of being locked away for the benefit of a man that he’d never even met. 

It hadn’t worked, of course. They had horses—good horses, and he should known, his father was the stable master—and dogs, and some god damn training as to how to find your way through miles of unmarked wilderness. He had some brains and some wit and more desperation than he knew how to carry. 

The hunters had reeled him back in with so much politeness it had felt rude. He tried to fight back and didn't even get a good punch to the face for his troubles, just tied hands and a murmured, “There you go,” as they hoisted him behind the young vice captain, who was mounted on a pretty palomino Stiles had watched Scott train under his father’s guidance. The ride back was silent, for the most part, unless you counted his own loud, angry internal monologue about the general stupidity of everything he’d ever done. By the time they reached the hold gates, his father, who had come out to wait for him—of course he had, as if he would have done anything else—took one look at his face and didn’t say anything. Just sighed. 

There had been no dinner for him that night. Or the next. Or for any days of the entire following fortnight. His father may have chosen not to punish him, but the circle was not so lenient. 

It was okay, though. That’s what he told himself, waiting hungry every night for Scott to stop by with some smuggled food on his way back from mucking stalls. It was okay. Okay to fail. It just meant he had to do better next time.

What he hadn't known is that the next time, it wouldn't be the guards who caught him. It would be Derek.


	2. the gordian knot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, chapter one! This is looking like it's going to be a long series of short vignettes.

_Seven months later_

"I can't believe this. You've got to be—“

"Kidding?" Scott shook his head. "I wish. I overheard the circle members talking. It's real. They're coming in next week, though, so you've still got some time."

"Next week? A week? Dude. How about next month? Or never? That would be a healthy amount of time to stay single."

"Stiles."

"What?"

"We can work this out." Scott shoved his hands in his pockets, looking around the courtyard for eavesdroppers. "We can--"

"Figure out how I'm going to get out of being hand-and-dickfasted to some idiot princeling by next week? Good one. Not like I've been trying to do that for the past three years."

Scott shook his head again and looked up at him through his bangs, his overgrown brown hair falling loosely around his eyes. Stiles looked at him and wished, for what seemed like the thousandth time, that he had been born differently. That he'd been made more like Scott. A boy, or man, or whatever, who would never have to be shuttled off like a potato to the highest bidder. A beta. Or even if he could have had a different personality. More like how they claimed pack omegas should be: quiet-like, less sarcastic, less curious, more  
obedient to others -- well, no, fuck that. He liked his personality.

There had been a time when he had been so envious of Scott he could barely speak to him. It was only when he realized he had to choose to feed either the jealousy or his friendship that he started trying to shut it off, and hell, was pretty gold-star successful about it most of the time. After what had happened to his mother, he couldn't afford to lose anyone else. Especially not anyone who understood him. Especially not anyone he loved. But right now? Talking about this topic? Not happening.

"Another thing. You keep on saying we, but let's face it, beta boy. I'm the only one who's got this problem. There's no -- no we, okay?"

"That's not fair!”

"No, you know, what's not fair is that I'll be given like one of my father's horses." As soon as it came out of his mouth he knew that saying it out loud had been a mistake. The words dropped like stones. Heavy, wrong. It wasn't that it wasn't true, it was just -- the way it sounded; too real, he wasn't, wouldn't be ready -- 

"Stiles--" Scott continued stubbornly, stepping closer. 

"Talk to you later," he muttered, turning his back and walking back to the colonnade framing the inner courtyard. "I've got chores to do anyway. Gotta go craft my image as a shining beacon of responsibility." 

"We can't just not talk about it," he heard behind him, again, this time a softer plea, but Stiles pursed his lips and kept walking.

* * *

The funny thing was, he did end up getting his chores done. Helping out in the hold's libraries was never really that bad, anyway, especially when they had new shipments of books in from a yearly lend program with the neighboring provinces. It was mainly just unloading boxes and taking the books out of their piles only to put them in another pile for eventual sorting into the shelves -- "Plebe work," Jackson had called it once, the little douche -- but the methodical work was grounding, right now, in a way he needed. Besides, this way he got first look at all that book booty.

Most of it, as per the circle's requests, was oriented towards what they called the foundation skills: agriculture, hunting, horsemanship, government, trade. But either the lending librarian had a sense of humor, or was just bad at following directions, because there was some stuff there that didn't fit in the rest. Stuff the circle would call frilly. Stiles began putting them all of to the side in a separate pile to look through later. Or, in some cases, to flip through while he worked.

_The Gauntlet of Hell! Volume 6: The Dastardly Demons Rise Again_

"The fuck?" 

_Teen Vamps_

"Who comes up with this shit?"

_The Female Menstrual Cycle: Get to Know Your Changing Body!_

"Well, sure." 

_Captured by the Drug Lord! A Big Bulge Series Classic_

"Sweet lords above, the earmarks on this thing."

But an hour into his work cataloging (and, well, reading -- he'd gotten into week three of the menstrual cycle, boggled by all the stunts the female reproductive system could get away with) he came across something that made him pause, his long fingers stilling abortively over the hardbound, gilded cover.

_The Gordian Knot: A Short History of the Broken Bond_

Tentative, Stiles opened the book, the stiffness of the spine and the rough, musty smell coming off the pages making him guess that this was a book that hadn’t met a reader in years.

After skimming through the first few blank vellum pages, he cut to the chase, slipped his index finger through the middle of the book, and opened it. It was the middle of a chapter, but he started reading anyway.

“…while the traditionalist view is that Naya was equally torn between her childhood love for Portia and her admiration for Lord Graham, modern scholarship indicates that she may never have been “torn” at all, but rather fully devoted to Portia and only willing to submit to Graham under extreme duress. These details notwithstanding, the following facts remain undisputed: Naya fought the bond and her circle to great personal cost, first through the use of illegal scent-suppressants, then by fleeing to the free colonies…”

It was too much. Stiles closed the book, his mind whirling. There was no way this book wasn’t censored. Bond-breaking? Scent suppressants? One of his father’s stable hands had been suspected – not convicted, just suspected - of dealing those and it had cost him his job, then his place in the hold. No one even knew how to make them. And what did that have to do with the bond? Could he – oh, god, if he could make the little prince bond to an artificial scent, a scent that didn’t even exist, would that mean – would that mean he could walk away? He couldn't bond twice.

He didn't even realize that he was starting to hyperventilate until the sound of his own harsh breathing echoed back at him through the library halls. Forcing his hands down to his thighs, he tilted his head back and took slow breaths, staring up at the high, small windows. 

Scott wanted to help, did he? He laughed, and the sound echoed softly off the high rafted library ceiling. 

Well, then. The first thing he’d be doing is helping him cook a little something up.


	3. Chapter 3

“Dude, can you believe we’ve only been here two hours?” Jackson whispered from beside him, peering down from their vantage point out the glazed window.

“No,” Derek replied, curt. 

His uncle, Peter, had sent him off in front of his gathered circle with his usual melodrama—a cleared throat, a hand on the shoulder, the whispered words, “My dear boy, I am sure you will do wonderfully. Wonderfully! The Hales are so proud of you and your upcoming bonding,” complete with a wide-eyed, watery stare off into the distance, which they both knew had little to do with Peter’s emotions for Derek and everything to do with Peter’s love of a good performance. 

Then he had spent the entire ride accompanied by Jackson, of all people. A greenhorn whose normal arrogance and attempts at looking manly had only been magnified by his puppy love for some woman in Beacon Hills—Lysa? —that he was going to see for the first time in three months now. What had he been saying about her again? 

“I’m telling you, you’ve never seen tits like this before. Never.”

Right. 

Now he was stuck waiting with Jackson—because that’s what he wanted, to spend more time with Jackson—while Beacon Hills scrambled to put the finishing touches on their welcoming banquet before sunset. 

Welcoming banquet. It sounded so… tame. Nothing in there to suggest that it was essentially an engagement party. A party before the mating hunt. His hunt, to be specific. They’d drag the boy, Stiles, out after midnight, formally exchange scents, and then Stiles would set off into the woods with Derek on his heels. 

Too bad he wasn’t actually planning on mating him. 

The real hunt would be the political hunt, the hunt that only he, Peter and a select few knew about. If that one went well, the night would end with the heads of some Beacon Hills circle members with their heads on spikes outside the wall and Hale control of the keep. 

“I don’t see her, do you?”

“Who.”

“Lydia, dude! Lydia! Have you even heard anything I’ve been saying? I’ve been talking this entire time.”

Derek cast a sideways look at Jackson. The boy looked genuinely taken aback. “I’m going to go on a walk,” he said, clearing his throat to cover a laugh. “See you at dinner.”

“But they told us to stay here,” he heard from behind him as he walked away.

“Stop playing by the rules, Jackson. I’ll see you at sunset.”

* * *

Considering the months of planning that he and Scott and put into trying to assure that this meeting, these fateful three days, would go perfectly, Stiles felt surprisingly carefree. It was probably just denial, a calm before the storm, but either way, his heartbeat was steady, his breathing was clear, and he saw no reason why he shouldn’t go out into the courtyard for what could be the last time in a long while.

Slipping through the colonnades, Stiles edged further towards his favorite bench—half sun, half shade, a hundred percent happiness—only to stop short behind the magnolia trees. 

There was someone there. 

Stiles peered closer, gripping the trunk between his fingers. 

A man. Black hair, pale skin, wide shoulders, and all of it backlit pleasantly by the setting sun. Broody type of face.

This was a private courtyard. So what was he doing here?

The man sighed, and Stiles peered closer. Not a bad looking fellow, to be honest. Strong features, and what looked like ridiculously long lashes even from halfway across the yard. Pretty smoking. The asshole probably smelled good too. Not his actual asshole. But—butts, oh god. He just needed to stop thinking.

It had to be someone from the Hale delegation. Probably the poor sot of an omega they were planning on pairing with Lydia. The alphas were kept away and holed up in a private wing before the banquet. Or it could be a burglar who wanted a quiet moment of peace on a good bench. You never really knew.

The wind shifted and Stiles froze. There went his cover. On the bench, the man stiffened and turned to peer into the garden at Stiles’ hiding spot.

“Who are you?”

Stiles chewed his lip and vaguely considered the appeal of answering versus slowly backing away and pretending this had never happened. He wasn’t really supposed to talk with any of the Hales before the whole Derek shebang. Hebang. Whatever. It went against all the protocol—

“I can smell you there.”

That did it. “Well, no shit!”

“What are you doing there? Show yourself.”

“Enjoying a pair of burly brows furrow on a bench.”

The brows furrowed further, and Stiles bit down on a finger to stop from laughing aloud. “What’s bothering them, exactly? Scared of a trimming?”

“What’s bothering me is an irritant hiding behind a big bush.”

“Sounds medical. I’d get that checked out if I were you.”

A lip quirked upward, but the rest of the guy’s face looked so pissed that Stiles honestly couldn’t tell if that was from actual humor or rage. 

He plowed onwards. “You’re with the Hales, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“You’re here to get bonded?”

Silence. And then: “Yes.”

“Oh man, I knew it. No wonder you ran away from your delegation. Jitters, I get it. Don’t worry about it too much. Lydia’s a Grade A hottie.”

Nevermind that he wasn't planning on going through with his own meeting. Whatever. He'd have to be able to liberate himself before he could liberate anyone else. Or something. Who knows, maybe he was really into traditionalism and just needed some fresh air.

The man threw a long look towards his tree and took a deep breath. Openly scenting was pretty rude, but those eyes—god. 

“And what about you, then?” he said quietly in response. “You getting bonded tonight?” 

“So they tell me! You’ve got to know him. De—” 

“Derek. Derek Hale.” That lip quirk had graduated into a small, private smile. “I know him.”

“And now you need say no more! The whole, ‘chase someone through the woods while your keep leaders keep guard around the forest edge so they can be sure no one actually succeeds in running away’ deal is a little too modern for me already, you know?”

“Stiles.” 

The man was shifting on the bench, turning entirely to face Stiles’ hiding spot, propping his arms on his knees to try to get a better vantage point into the bushes. He looked dangerous. Were other omegas allowed to look that dangerous?

“Too civilized. Call me old-fashioned, but I like to maintain a little mystery before I get hunted down in the dark. They better be as close to a complete stranger as possible, or I feel like I’m sullying my virtue.”

“Stiles.”

Wait. What?

“That’s, um, nope. That’s not me.”

“Stiles is being bonded to Derek. It’s got to be you.”

Dumb, dumb.

“That’s funny that you think that, because I’m pretty sure he’s right where he’s supposed to be right now. In the bower. Chanting to the ancestors for, like, fertility and a mate that frowns on domestic abuse and bad china patterns.”

“You’re right here,” the man growled. "And I could come over there and get you right now if I wanted to."

God, it was like talking to the bench. “Yes, dumbass. What I’m saying is that according to the both of us, I never went out when I wasn’t supposed to and neither did you. Got it?”

“Oh.”

“Finally. And with that, I’ll be going. You can now privately congratulate yourself on successfully ruining my last chance at privacy in the foreseeable future.”

That was a little low, but seriously, he was a little pissed. 

Getting back inside without being seen was tricky, but Stiles decided the pain of moving crouched on his hands and feet for ten feet was worth not having to, what were the words he’d used? Oh, right. ‘Show yourself.’

He was two feet from the door when a low voice murmured, “Those bushes you’re crawling behind now aren’t very obstructive of the view.”

Stiles’ jaw dropped. “Rude!” he yelled, and pulled the door open with a vicious twist before scrambling inside and slamming it shut. 

So much for enjoying the fucking courtyard.


	4. Ready, Steady, Go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are plot holes I need to fix. Please be patient with me while I knit away at them!

“Five minutes. That’s all I have. Five minutes before I’m dragged out of this room.”

“Escorted,” muttered Scott from where he stood outside his door with Allison. They’d both been designated more than months prior as what Jackson liked to derogatory call Stiles’ bridesmaids; Scott had earnestly replied that they were more like matemaids and frankly, things had only gone downhill from there. “We’re your escorts.”

“Five minutes before I am forcibly escorted -- one might even deign to use the word drag, should they seek vocabularic simplicity -- out of the peace and solitude of this chamber."

"Vocabularic isn't grammatical, dude."

“And neither of those words apply to your room,” said Allison, laughing.

“You don’t know my life!” he groused back, sitting on his bed and watching his toes idly as he curled his sandaled feet back and forth. “The noise is a facade.”

“Is it really a facade if you live in it?” joked Scott, earning a giggle from Allison. From where Stiles sat, he could have sworn he heard this followed by a small kiss. _Gross._ It wasn’t enough that they had to be disgustingly attracted to each other, they had to be disgustingly attracted to each right in front of Stiles before he was dragged to his own mating ceremony with some strange weirdo named Derek Hale, for all he knew looked like a misshapen piece of prehistoric lava rock.

He felt okay about it right now, though. Okay being a relative concept. The tiny weight of the vial resting in a hidden pocket of his vest helped, but not much. He’d spent the night prior choking on his own air, unable to breath, alone in his bed and terrified of where he’d be tomorrow. Would his plan work at all? He hadn't had an opportunity to test out the potion. And if it didn’t, did he know how to deal with the consequences? _Only one way to find out_ , he thought, tapping his feet again against the floor. _And that's the worst._

He’d tried to prepare as much as possible, but resources in the keep about mating were either voraciously purple or dryly scientific. There wasn’t much of anything there about how to navigate an early bond with someone you possibly despise, or how to maintain above suicidal mental health in a forced marriage. Just shit like, “Just as the full moon calls to us all, so will you call to your bondmate in glorious abandon.” The only part about that that called to Stiles was "abandon." 

He wanted to abandon this hand he'd been dealt -- omega, valuable enough to be marriageable, powerless enough to be pliable -- like any other piece of shit luck that had come into his life, but some things were harder to shake off than others.

Even though he knew to expect it, the twin bells that rang throughout the keep were loud enough to make him tense and stiffen, the hairs on his back rising as his stomach churned with nerves.

"Stiles?"

"Yeah, yeah. This princess is ready for the ball."

Standing seemed, strangely, to take hours. His room, usually so familiar, looked strangely surreal. It would have been a great moment for -- for a goodbye, he guessed -- but the thought made him even more nauseous, and he hurried towards his door without further pause. It swung open before he could even reach for the handle, and he was immediately faced with the unusually sober faces of Scott and Allison, both of whom smelled more nervous than they’d sounded through the door.

"You really ready?"

"Ready, petty, steady as confetti."

Scott frowned at him for a second but seemed to think better of it. _There are really so many ways you can ask your best friend how he feels about being sold off to a stranger_ , Stiles thought without a little bitterness, _because the answer's usually the same._

Not that he could really be mad at him, he reflected as Scott began fumbling for a piece of paper in his pocket. He'd helped him out a lot, in the end. He wasn’t sure he agreed with what he was doing, or even understood -- hell, Scott’s parent’s mating had been arranged -- but at this point intentions didn’t much matter. 

Takes a pack to run away from one.

"I, Scott McCall, accompany you to the hunt. May the moon bless your path."

"I, Allison Argent, accompany you to the hunt. May the moon bless your path."

“Stiles Stilinski, awake and reporting for duty.”

“That’s... what?” 

“Definitely not the lines he’s supposed to say, which you would know if you’d bothered to memorize them,” said Allison dryly, pulling away from Scott. “But no one will know otherwise. So let’s just go and forget about it.”

\------------------------------------------------------

The polished oak doors of the main hall had just come into view by the time Stiles’ nerves had settled into something resembling calm. 

“You remember the plan?” Scott muttered from beside him, too quietly for Allison to pick up. “I need to know you remember.”

“I remember.” Memories of their rehearsals seemed to be floating by him like smoke.

_“Meet Hale at dinner. Be nice. Costs me nothing. He won’t be able to establish a scent anyway, not with the ceremonial incense choking up the place.”_

_“Then?”_

_“Run when they blow the first horn, just like a good omega should. Wait until I’m out of smell’s way, then drink down my little friendly vial. Become invisible to even the best of noses. Run some more. Hopefully, run away.”_

_“If he still finds you?”_

_“Let him bite me. It won’t be a lasting bond, not with my scent all wrong.”_

“This is it,” hissed Allison from his left. “We’re here.”

The heavy doors inched open in front of them, grating slightly against the worn stone floors. They stood stock still, together, as the hall came gradually into view before them. It was -- it was -- well, he wanted to say huge, but the truth was it was smaller than he remembered. Probably because it was so full of people. So full of people staring at him. 

“This princess is ready for the ball,” Stiles said again, faintly, and stepped forward. 

_It’s beginning._


	5. Finder's Keepers

There were more people than he’d pictured. It was louder than he’d imagined. The noise seemed to amplify against the high, dark wood-beamed roof to surround him completely. It’s difficult to focus on anybody or anything until he presses his nails carefully into the palm of his hand, making a small fist by his side. The pain serves to center him, and his mind clears. 

It’s easy to find his dad, who stands in a place of honor in the center of the room next to the Argents and few others who must be with his intended’s circle. He makes brief eye contact and his father gives a quick nod of recognition. He looks proud. He looks nervous. Stiles feels his chest tighten briefly, overwhelmed with the force of everything he’s keeping from his father, and forces himself to breath through it. His dad is gonna be okay. Furious, maybe. But okay. 

Lydia’s there too, and Stiles doesn’t even want to think about the way he feels when he sees here there, looking as haughty and bored as ever, her soft red hair glinting faintly against the torchlight. That’s never happening, especially not now.

The Hale in question -- his mate? -- has got to be on the other side of the hall, under the Hale flag, but he doesn’t know if he wants to deliberately look for him. Or at him. Stiles pauses in his perusal of the hall, briefly keeping his eyes anywhere but there. He feels nauseous. _Gotta know what he looks like, buddy, let’s be real._ The time between raising his eyes off of the whorls of pattern in the wood floor by his feet and staring deliberately across the room feels like a small millennia. 

And there -- and there is --

Stiles’ back straightens involuntarily; his eyes widen. The memory comes back to him unbidden, his own taunting voice ringing loud and clear in his mind’s eye:

_“What are you doing there? Show yourself.”_

_“Enjoying a pair of burly brows furrow on a bench.”_

Derek Hale. It was Derek Hale before in the garden, and it’s Derek Hale again now, staring at him unashamedly and intently. There’s no smile, no smirk, no surprise in eyes, just -- just that long, measured stare, and the obvious power of his body beneath the cleanly cut, sparsely embroidered ceremonial garb. 

_Looks like I was the only one behind the curve of this little identity realization._

“Fuck.” The word slips out of him as he looks away, his heartbeat quickening. He hopes his face isn’t flushing, but it feels hot. _His eyes are so green._ Scott shoots him a curious sideways look from beside him, but Stiles shakes his head and says nothing. 

This has got to be even worse than he imagined.

His thoughts are cut short by the arrival of Mr. Argent at his elbow.

“Stiles!”

“Hello, uh, Mr. Argent.”

“No need to call me by my family name today, boy. You’re entering adulthood now.”

Stiles laughs awkward in response. “Thanks.” _Great, but you’re pretty much invalidating your attempt at not being a condescending jackass by calling me a boy, jackass._

Chris steps away from him and clears his throat softly, raising his hands, palms upwards, towards the assembled crowd. It quiets faster than Stiles would have thought possible. Everyone standing besides the long banquet benches, some already holding full flagons or glasses, turn to face them both, although Stiles notices that a few keep glancing curiously back at where Derek stands at the opposite end of the hall.

“Family and friends -- we welcome you here, to the warmth of our circle.”

There are a few appreciate hoots from the audience.

“Today we celebrate the beginnings of a new bond; a beginning dictacted to us through history and song. At sunset tonight, the alpha will hunt and the omega surrender.”

Blegh.

“I call first Derek Hale of the Hale Circle, son of the late Adam and the late Helen.”

Derek bows from the waist down to Chris Argent as the crowd watches in dead silence. His parents, Stiles remembers faintly, had both been killed in a fire over a decade ago. _Sad, but it has no bearing on what’s happening here._

“I call last Stiles Stilinski of the Argent Circle, son of Paul and the late Laurel.” 

The silence, if anything, deepens as Stiles bows in return. Everyone remember his mother here; the loss is personal and still felt by many besides himself and his father. He’d gotten out of a fair scrape or two because someone felt bad about harshly disciplining her son. Although to be fair, he wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for his mother. His father’s blood was reputable, to be sure, but nothing as high as hers. She was truly the coveted one -- and the one whose heritage made him so coveted now. Guess she got me into the biggest scrape of all, he thinks wryly, but it’s a consideration void of real malice.

“Do you both agree to participate equally in your duties and share in the nights ahead, should the hunt prove fruitful?”

“I do,” rumbles Derek. He’s staring at Stiles again, or maybe it’s just the same stare as before. Maybe he hasn’t stopped staring. _Oh, god. There’s something on my face. He hates me from yesterday. He knows me from yesterday. He knew me then! But why didn’t he say anything?_

“I - I do,” Stiles calls out in response, hating the brief hitch of his voice and narrowing his eyes briefly, angrily, at Derek to compensate. The alpha’s expression never even changes.

“Then let the feast begin and hunt follow!” Chris is yelling now, raising his hands in celebration as the crowd breaks out in real cheers and applause. Time is moving strangely now. So quickly, so much quicker than usual -- there’s a hand pressing against his lower back, guiding him towards a table until he’s sitting, finally sitting down and surrounded on all sides by well-wishers. He finds himself talking to them, thanking them almost blankly, unaware and yet completely aware of everything he’s doing. It’s as if he’s watching himself from a distance.

The hours pass in a blur. A few images sear into his mind more strongly than others: Scott with Allison, laughing into her hair at a comment she’s made. There’s Lydia, twirling her finger slowly around the edge of a glass while she makes at eyes at Jackson. Chris Argent standing in the shadows by the wall with his wife, deep in conversation. And Derek -- Derek on the other side of the hall, Derek catching his eyes on him and slowly raising his glass of wine and curving his lips into what, on anyone else, would be a smile.

It looks like a threat.

When the bell begins to toll, Stiles knows it’s time. He’s been waiting for his resolve to coalesce into something stronger, something steadier, but it seems that this sick anticipation is as good as it’ going to get. He checks his pocket again for the vial -- still there -- and stands with Allison and Scott as everyone else in the assembled parties returns to their seat and quietens. 

They leave the hall without words. 

With Allison and Scott tagging at his footsteps, they walk from the hall to the opening of the forest path. Dusk is beginning to settle throughout the hold, and the tops of the trees in the far distance are light with a deceivingly soft, welcoming glow. 

They stop at the base of the carved wooden marker listing the distance remaining to the next circle. Twenty miles. Stiles should know; he’d looked it up. He turns and looks at Scott, suddenly and painfuly gripped by the knowledge that this -- whatever he was doing, whatever ended up happening -- could take him farther from his friend than he’d ever been before. 

“So,” he said lamely. “See you later, bro.”

Scott cleared his throat in return and leaned forward to give Stiles a quick hug, patting him soundly on the back with his fist. “Later.”

Stiles spares a brief look at Allison, who looks strangely moved by the proceedings. He’s moving forward to say -- something -- to her too, but she speaks first.

“You really should just start running before the second bell. Get a better head start.” 

“Hah, wow, yeah, hadn’t thought of that one.”

Now Stiles is moved. Allison knew close to nothing about his plan, but here she was, telling him to cheat on one of the most sacred existing ritual of the circles. He’d been planning on doing it anyway, but a little encouragement never hurt.

_Looks like even the girl who follows the rules wants to go a little rogue these days._

So with a brief nod at his friend and his friend’s girlfriend, who are possibly just his friend and his other friend if he’s honest with himself, Stiles turns around and starts running down the dark path into the woods. 

_Ready or not, here I go._


End file.
